


Little Dancer

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: AU, F/F, Femslash, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels good, <i>so good</i>, to be unmasked. Even if it's all temporary. [Peggy/Natasha – AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Dancer

Each kiss is a gunshot.

And she's never quite prepared. It's as if her firm bones suddenly  _shatter_. Her shoulders slump, and suddenly her legs can no longer carry her. For a moment, she's attached, completely and utterly dependent, and, every time, her cheeks redden, the tip of her nose turns a sweet shade of scarlet.

Natasha is a soft lover.

Beautifully submissive. She just  _falls_.

The curiosity has burned Peggy ever since she laid eyes on her. Young, illegible, stoic –– she reminds her of Steve sometimes. Him, before. Passionate, smart but fragile in the most subtle way. Natasha moves lightly on her feet; she's silent and observant.

Plagued by grim reminders.

She fights like a dancer.

Her balance is flawless. She never trips, doesn't slip, and always lands gracefully. There is  _far_  too much concentration in her movements, and, somehow, she still makes it look so easy. The men stare in awe, speechless, and Peggy has to hide her smirk behind her various reports. This is no land for a lady. So they say. But Natasha barely registers the term "lady". It has no relevance.

Natasha is like a ghost.

She comes and goes. Fades away into nothing for months at a time.

Reappears without an invitation.

But, she's always welcome as far as Peggy's concerned, even if Natasha only spends her time with Steve. They're a great team, she thinks, and they have a lot to share. She doesn't disturb them when they're together. She's happy to watch her favourite soldier mingle, happy to watch him smile. Natasha is elegant beside him, which is startling, considering she wears such harsh, dark colours.

They refer to her as Widow.

Peggy is the only one who has an issue with the name.

Occasionally, she'll offer her tea. She won't ask, she'll just give, and Natasha always seems to be at a loss with the rather forward approach.

It's the first time Peggy realises there's more to this strange woman than she's letting on.

When Natasha leaves, the mug is always empty.

They talk when opportunity allows them to. Natasha has little to say, but her answers are always honest, and she's never rude. She seems to  _relax_  around her, and it has nothing to do with the fact their gender is scowled at within these walls. Both women are immune to the barks of dogs. It's something else; something more. And every time they bid each other farewell, Natasha reaches over to shake her hand. Nothing formal about it, and it's not necessarily about respect either.

Just the touch. The familiar sensation of Peggy's hand in hers.

She vanishes again. This time for over a year, and Peggy hates how she starts to miss her. And it's no casual feeling either. She feels  _empty_. Hollow, and, every now and again, a little shaken. Natasha is an enigma, rumoured to have a heart of stone, but her presence is strangely uplifting. Strangely nice, and comforting. Strangely wholesome.

There isn't a point when she realises she may be in love.

She may have always been.

It's Peggy's apartment Natasha goes to one night. Bruised and bloody.

She asks for a cup of tea, and she wants Peggy to talk to her. About anything. She wants to be spoken to, and out of everyone she knows, she chose Peggy. Probably for no particular reason. Probably for many small reasons. So, Peggy obliges. She discusses work –– briefly –– and then about her friend, Angie, who Natasha hasn't met before and never will. She doesn't know why she focusses on Angie, but, in the back of her mind, she thinks she has to keep the topic light.

After all, Natasha didn't come all this way out of duty. Out of some need for work.

For heavy discussion and guilty silences.

She's here because she's desperate.

Natasha likes to be kissed, but only by very  _few_  people. Peggy is one of these very few people.

Their kisses aren't rough. They aren't hard, tight and possessive. They aren't rushed or violent. They are two women who endure several battles at once, every day. For Natasha, it isn't  _rational_  to take these burdens to bed with her. For Peggy, she just doesn't have the  _energy_. And, frankly, neither are the type, despite the gossip flooding around them.

But they are so  _tired_  of gossip, of words and the barks of chortling men.

They kiss. Break apart. Kiss again. Apart. Back again. As if asking for permission each time.

Natasha's body is littered with scars. Some old, some fresh. Peggy has to kiss the sorest, the ones Natasha instinctively hides with her fingers. She doesn't try. She doesn't try to maintain her cool mannerism. She isn't the warrior on the field, a woman cast in red light, perceived as such a sinful creature. Natasha is almost  _demure_. Almost.

Each time Peggy smiles a little, pulls her in for another kiss –– Natasha shudders.

A bullet to the chest. Again, again, again. She's letting herself go, and it's an overwhelming, heavenly sensation. It takes Peggy a while to realise it's been a very, very long time since Natasha has made  _love_  to anybody. And even during her experienced years, she was never truly  _raptured_  in this devastating, slow, blissful,  _thrilling_  motion.

She likes how Natasha's breath catches when her palm grazes over her breast, how  _controlled_  yet  _limp_  she is, how her cheeks have reddened, and how her eyes roll back, and her fists clench the bedsheets as Peggy carefully, but with just the right amount of pressure, touches her. Now, Natasha's attempts start to show. Her palm is delicate at Peggy's thigh and Natasha is a little impatient, a little selfless, a little greedy, and tries to return her affections. But it has been so long, so long since, and she surrenders entirely.

Her hands fall onto the bed again, she arches her hips, concentrates on the rising heat between her legs.

Slow, gradual,  _like fire_.

They are completely open to one another, and it's nothing bad.

Natasha stiffens and lets out a breathy moan as she comes to a brief finish; warm and tender.

Then, she has to look at her, see how deep her brown eyes are –– Natasha never realised how captivating she is. Natasha truly is hopeless when it comes to beauty; it always passes her, and she rarely has the luxury of viewing an image so close, so intimately and generously.

It feels good,  _so good_ , to be unmasked.

Even if it's all temporary.

Natasha wants to kiss her, and so she does, until their temporary comes to an end.

**Author's Note:**

> I really am unsatisfied by the lack of Peggy/Natasha fics, but this ship is so never going to happen but I don't care. I ship it, and I ship it hard, and I have every intention to write more on these two. Of course that means everything I do write on these two is completely AU, and an open mind is required in order to brush off the fact these two have a pretty darn big age gap in the canon-timeline, whatever that is. I like to write fics where Natasha is an agent during the War, so it's safe to say all my Peggy/Natasha fics will have this theme throughout.
> 
> To the surprise of no one, this oneshot doesn't have a plot. Not really. It was more of an analysis between the two, and what I think they'd be like together during that era. I honestly feel quite self conscious about this piece. I'm always a little shy when it comes to smut, no matter the lack of description. So, I'd be extremely appreciative if you could leave me a review or a kudos. I'm just babbling now.
> 
> Oh, and note, you can never go wrong with a cuppa tea. Tea is good. And I make great tea, by the by.


End file.
